


loaded

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Chair Bondage, Gunplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, not safe not sane kinda consensual, reading of consent issues may vary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames thinks turnabout is fair play. But Arthur is hard to steer even if things go exactly as you plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loaded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/gifts).



> Aja said she wanted gunplay. I can't help myself sometimes. There is no plot here. 
> 
> The third installment of the nebulous series formed by [knife to a gunfight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7375369) and [they all cheat at cards](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7675009).

Eames actually thinks their mark might have the drop on them, for once. She's got a confident stance and a bead on Arthur's forehead … But Arthur just cocks his head at her, quirks his eyebrow at Eames over her shoulder, and says, 'Your safety's still on. This barely qualifies as foreplay, let alone a threat.'

She wisely decides to run for it, rather than shoot. So they're down the payout on what would have been a nice little earner, but Eames can't help respecting someone who realises they're being played before the game reaches its endpoint. 

'Goddamn,' says Arthur shortly, not even bothering to give chase. Lisbon is a blindingly bright maze of tiny streets and inexplicable trams, they both know they've no shot at catching her. Instead he checks his pockets - _spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch_ some old forgery says in the back of Eames's head - and then he's gone too, into the yellow-white-blue, too-bright city. Eames shades his eyes to watch him as he disappears against the overexposed backdrop, and thinks, _foreplay_.

Hmmm. 

***

They've been playing a game, the past six months, and by Eames's reckoning Arthur's two points up, two bullseyes, two things Arthur figured out that Eames didn't even know about himself.

If Eames hated to lose he wouldn't be where he is today, but he hates letting Arthur win. So he watches Arthur's long fingers on the textured grip of his Glock, and extrapolates. 

In fairness, Eames has no particularly pressing reason to interrogate his own sexual preferences. Other people's are much more useful. And Arthur, though fucking him is on occasion like navigating a minefield, has never been difficult in bed. He asks for what he wants. He's very clear. He's a communicator, Arthur, in an odd sort of a way.

But looking at him with his business eye, just for a moment, Eames thinks, maybe Arthur has only been asking for the things he knows he'll get. Arthur doesn't gamble. Arthur steers. Arthur channels. Arthur compromises. Arthur cheats. 

Most people are nested performances like matryoshka dolls, but sooner or later they do all have a singularity at their cores. Arthur likes to act as if he's a monolith, infinite, turtles all the way down, but - 

\- but his totem is a die, is a cube, is a Platonic solid, is equal all over by very definition, but one side is heavier than the others and will come down first, if all other things are equal -

\- but if he just liked fucking he'd just fuck, not try and draw out Eames's dirty little secrets - 

\- but _foreplay,_ and that little smile, and really, that's all Eames needs to find a way in.

***

People are funny about guns in all sorts of ways that they aren't about shovels and flat screen televisions and baseball bats with nails in, despite the fact that guns aren't any more unique than any of those other objects, on any scale, not on usefulness or complexity or ability to kill or any of it. 

Eames did his tour in the sand, so he leans towards 'shovel' in the school of philosophical firearm classification.

But Arthur's American, even if he's also ex-mumble mumble something classified that Eames has yet to winkle out of his sources, so he has this ingrained view of guns that's utterly alien to Eames. It boils down to this - Eames doesn't feel _more in control_ of a situation if the safety catch is off. And he wouldn't carry a handgun with such a complicated relationship with 'safety', either, but Arthur favours his lump of plastic, which means something when you travel carry-on only so often between countries on questionable passports. Almost everything is fair game to get left behind sooner or later. But Arthur holds on to the Glock as hard as he holds on to his totem. Maybe harder. Like it's an extension of his body. 

Eames has been feeling a bit too taken apart by Arthur, lately. Time for a little vivisection of his own.

***

Arthur is in Caracas. He probably feels safe up there, barricaded in behind mountains and an outstandingly high unsolved murder rate. Eames makes sure to make extra noise as he breaks into the hotel room. 

Just because he's _expecting_ it when he ends up flat on the floor with a knee in the small of his back and the muzzle of Arthur's Glock next to his jaw doesn't meant it hurts any less. It knocks the wind out of him just long enough, though, that Arthur realises it's him, and starts to let him up. Which was not, in fact, part of the plan. 

So Eames turns his head, with a modicum of effort, and puts his mouth on Arthur's gun.

Arthur freezes. 

Eames runs his lips up the cold polymer casing, twisting enough that he can see the gleam in Arthur's eyes in the city lights slivering through the gaps in the blinds. He lets his tongue peek out, tastes gun oil and the impersonal nothing of plastic, and then Arthur's barely-warm knuckles, and can't actually help the full body shiver he gets when Arthur, deliberately, puts his weight back down. 

'Eames,' he says. 'You wanna tell me what this is about?'

'Is the gun safe?' Eames asks in counterpoint, mumbling it because, let's face it, he's about thirty seconds from attempting fellatio on a firearm and enjoying it. 

'It's 4am, we're in Venezuela, and I thought you were a fucking burglar - what do you think?' Arthur snaps. 'No, Eames, the gun is not safe. What the fuck is this about?'

'Foreplay,' says Eames softly, and closes his eyes.

***

Eames wakes up with a headache, tied to a chair.

He's not sure where he was expecting things to go, exactly, but getting pistol-whipped was not as high on his list as it turns out it should have been.

Arthur sleeps in too-long plaid pyjama bottoms that crumple up around his feet, it turns out, and no shirt. Must be the climate up here, is Eames's first thought, although given Eames is shivering a little maybe that trite little suggestion isn't exactly rooted in fact. And Arthur's abdominal muscles are a masterclass in subtlety - clearly visible, but only in relief as he turns away from the window, where he's opened the blinds. He hasn't turned a light on. 

Eames is easily distracted post-head trauma.

'So, I'm pretty sure I'm not under,' is Arthur's first statement when he sees Eames is awake again. 'Which means you're not a projection.'

'Astute of you,' Eames says, instead of _entertaining projections you have_.

Arthur scowls and approaches him until he can look him hard in the eyes. 'Who's paying you?' he asks. 'Or what are they holding over you?'

Eames blinks at him. 'Please explain to me, Arthur, how me kissing your gun somehow translates to an evil plot in your mind. Because I'm all at sea here, honestly.'

He waits for an explanation, and when it doesn't come, he starts to worry that he's put his foot right in the middle of some cat and mouse game Arthur's playing, something he's not privy to as an occasional lover and even more occasional colleague. But Arthur squints at him in the low light, and doesn't say a word, and that furrow between his brows deepens. Eames is about to offer to fuck off and pretend he has no idea Arthur is in the entire continental mass of South America, if that's what Arthur wants, but then Arthur bites his lip, and Eames remembers that Arthur is not actually an infallible psychic automaton, he's _human_ , and it is arse o fucking clock in the morning. 

Autopilot. Eames got knocked out and hogtied on autopilot. Which is probably what he gets for having a pointman as a fuckbuddy, but still. 

'I just wanted to surprise you, that's all,' Eames says gently. 

It takes a second, but Arthur deflates, his black-ops calm splintering. 'Jesus fuck. Eames, you idiot, I could have shot you.'

He goes to put the gun down. 'No,' Eames says. 'Bring that back here.'

'I need to untie you -'

'You need to finish what you started,' says Eames. He wriggles in his bindings. 'I'm perfectly comfy, thank you very much.' Actually his wrists are starting to pinch a little bit, and he's fairly sure from how tight the skin around his temple feels that Arthur drew blood, but he likes the restriction and he likes the edge of pain and he likes, very much, the heat that's starting to come into Arthur's expression. 

He licks his lips, and looks at the gun in Arthur's hand. 

'Are you serious?' Arthur says, but he crosses the two step space between them and plants his knees on the chair he's tied Eames to, awkwardly jamming them in the lack of space between Eames's thighs and the armrests. This brings both his gun hand and his rapidly hardening cock up to Eames's face. 

Eames nuzzles against Arthur's hipster-pants-clad crotch and licks the gun barrel, showy, pornographic cliche-style. 'Dead serious,' he says, letting his eyes flutter shut. 'Come on, Arthur. I'm all yours.'

Arthur responds by cupping the back of Eames's head and feeding him the Glock up to the trigger guard. 'Are you,' he says, drawing it back out again, presumably watching Eames drool all over high-performance resin and ethically-sourced cotton and both of their skin. 'Because I don't believe you.'

Eames tongues inside the barrel of the gun, feeling Arthur's cock twitch against his cheek, and wondering how in fuck's name Arthur can be here, in this moment, and think Eames is anything but his. 

Arthur pulls Eames off the Glock eventually, achingly slowly, by which point Eames is a little bit anoxic, a little bit fuzzy, and he mouths after the retreating weapon as if it's the air he so sorely actually needs. Arthur holds him too tight for that, though. 'Now me,' he says, and Eames has actually untied plenty of knots with his teeth, through his life, but the one holding Arthur's trousers up appears to pass through seven dimensions that don't actually intersect with the three that Eames currently lives in. He tugs at it sloppily and gets it wet and unwieldy but he doesn't manage to pull it free. 

In the end, Arthur shoves the trousers down his thighs, and his cock slaps Eames in the face. The roof of Eames's mouth, his soft palate, even his tongue, are sore from the hard edges of the gun, and his jaw has been pulled bruisingly wide already, but he doesn't open his eyes, doesn't say a word, just takes Arthur in. 

Now the gun is grazing through his hair, tapping the bump behind his ear ( _your sternocleidomastoideus,_ the ghost of the forgery of a doctor who knew too much about his Mafioso patients reminds him), and the nature of this gun in particular means it's both safe and not safe all at once. 

Arthur's other hand is gentle on his face, thumbing his lips, his closed eyelids. Safe and not safe, all at once.

'I know we all have a fucking deathwish, Eames, but this takes the cake,' he's murmuring, canting his hips slowly, fucking Eames's face at the speed of continental drift. The muzzle of the Glock is moving, tracing the same pattern as Arthur's fingers - _zygomatic, parietal, up the squamous suture, down the frontal bone_ \- gently, like he's trying to smooth the concentration wrinkles out of Eames's forehead. 'I've got a full magazine and one in the chamber,' he says. 'That make you hot? Did you seriously fly all the way to Caracas just to be fucked with a gun?'

Eames pulls back, mouth sliding slickly off Arthur's cock, and Arthur lets him. He coughs. 'No,' he says, roughly. 'Flew here to let _you_ fuck me with _your_ gun.'

He raises his face so that he can look Arthur in the eye when he gets it, when he realises. He's a mess, he knows - his mouth feels swollen, wet, chapped at the corners and stretched til aching point - but Arthur is suddenly looking down at him like he's beautiful. And - and it's too much. Eames looks down, looks away, pushes his face back into Arthur's thigh and kisses him there where he's soft and the hair fans out like woodgrain over his skin. 

Arthur's hands, both of them, the one with the gun in it and the one that's empty, both come to rest on Eames's head, and pull him back to look up again. 

'Full magazine,' Eames rasps, fighting Arthur's grip and managing to kiss the sloppy tip of his cock, making it jerk and leave another smear across his lip. 'One in the chamber. That get you hot?' he asks, and Arthur slams himself home in Eames's mouth like it's an autonomic response.

But he says, in some kind of strained tone that's barely louder than the breath out of his lungs, 'No.' He grinds his pelvis up against Eames's mouth, Eames's nose touching the sparse hair of his belly, no air there but the warm scent rising from Arthur's skin.

The muzzle of the Glock is blood-heat now. Eames can barely feel it as it traces his skin until his pulse, jumping in his throat, meets pressure, resistance. He's dizzy with lack of breath and the strange confusions inherent in sucking cock; the too much-not enough conflict, the invasion of it, how iron-hard Arthur feels against his tongue and yet how delicate, how sensitive; the thin velvet skin you don't dare touch with your teeth, the taste of it that makes you want to spit and makes you want to drool all at once.

'It isn't the gun,' Arthur breathes, bringing it up and tracing it along the taut, trembling stretch of Eames's mouth where it's wrapped around his cock. 'Just like it isn't blood and piss for you, not by themselves, is it?'

He thrusts, hard, and Eames's throat stutters closed against the invasion. The muzzle of the gun is against his cheekbone now, dragging a tiny smear of his saliva with it to leave a reminder of its path. 

'You like to get inside people,' Arthur murmurs, curling down and crooning the words at Eames even as he takes a harder hold on Eames's head and starts to fuck his mouth in earnest. 'All that mess, all that intimacy, right? You want there to be nowhere left to hide, you want to see people all laid out in front of you. Don't you.'

Eames can't nod, can't blink, can't move, but he hums a hoarse agreement and gets an involuntary shiver from Arthur in response. He does it again, and again, because he likes how uncalculated Arthur's reaction is to the vibrations - moans around Arthur's cock until all he can taste is how wet Arthur can get. 

'Well, I like order,' says Arthur softly, still punctuating his words with sharp jerks of his hips. 'And I like …' He trails off, stops moving entirely for a second, and Eames freezes. His body is straining against his bonds and against the chair itself, pinned so tight his arse is going flat and his wrists really are starting to chafe, his mouth is stretched painfully and he's making a mess of _himself_ , let alone Arthur. But Arthur has stopped and so it's instinct for Eames to do the same, threat radar pinging until he realises that the threat is Arthur, moving the gun. 

The muzzle of the gun comes to rest in the tiny divot at the back of Eames's neck, the join between spine and skull - _the atlanto-occipital joint_ \- 

'I like it when I can watch you come apart,' says Arthur. 'Are you? Gonna come apart for me, Eames? Be a fucking mess for me? You don't have a choice, do you? Cos I got you, I got you right where I want you.'

If that gun discharges, Eames is toast. His cock jerks so hard in his trousers he feels his eyes start to roll back in his head. He just wants Arthur to come, preferably all over him, he wants that split second of _ohfuck_ in Arthur's eyes to be fixed on him, only on him, he wants - 

He wants …

… he wants the adrenaline-drowned microsecond you get in the dreamscape when you pull the trigger on yourself, that's what he wants.

_Did you know, another term for the fight-or-flight response is hyperarousal?_

Arthur pulls out of his mouth, though, giving him a sudden rush of air that leaves him lightheaded, and lowers himself to sit in Eames's lap instead. The pressure and weight on his cock is like an electric shock. 

'Open up,' Arthur says, and pushes the gun back into Eames's abused mouth. 'You wanna be fucked with a gun, Eames, you're gonna. You're gonna let me do this.'

Eames is. 

'And if you're very good for me, I'll come on you, like you want me to.'

Eames has no choice. If he could unhinge his jaw he would. The zipties Arthur cinched his wrists to the chair with are cutting into him now and if only he could spread his legs he would do that too, but he can't do anything except let Arthur grind hard on his trapped cock and fuck his mouth with a gun that can't discharge accidentally but can't be made safe. 

Full magazine. One in the chamber. 

'I want to feel you come,' Arthur murmurs, kissing Eames's cheek where the barrel of the Glock is pressed against it from the inside, snaking his free hand down between them to unbuckle Eames's belt, touch what little skin he can reach under Eames's waistband. 

His fingertips graze the head of Eames's cock, not even a real touch, but it makes Eames moan around the gun. It's not enough, it's not _enough_ \- 

\- there's a flicker of motion close, close enough to make his eyes blur when he tries to focus on it. Arthur has moved his finger off the trigger guard onto the trigger. Eames looks up at Arthur's face, and his throat locks up, can't breathe, can't move, because _Arthur has his finger on the trigger -_

Arthur cocks an eyebrow at him. 'I think we're done with foreplay,' he says. 'Come, Eames.'

Eames's orgasm rushes out of him, knocks him for six like a nail-studded piece of two-by-four. He wrenches at his bindings, body spasming, and the warm smooth resin casing in his mouth is the only stable point in a universe that's suddenly spinning. 

He's sobbing, head hanging, heart thudding, by the time Arthur pulls the Glock free, ejects the magazine, puts the thing to Eames's temple and then kneels up to jerk his cock all over Eames's face. Eames's lips feel thick, swollen and sore as he tries to lick Arthur's mess off them, exhausted and yet somehow eager, still. 

Arthur kisses the worst of it off him and cuts the zipties, dresses the bleeding welts they left behind. He kisses Eames again, behind the ear - _sternocleidomastoideus_ \- when he's pulled them both to bed. 

Eames wakes up the next morning, and his hand is locked around a 9mm round. Arthur is gone. But the kettle is still hot, and the note on the fridge says,

_I'll be in Brno next week._

_Will you?_

That's a loaded question.


End file.
